The Chronicles of Maecelofin: Part II
by Amaurea2007
Summary: The second part of a trilogy. AU fic. With Nirnaeth Arnoediad close at hand, Maedhros leaves behind a lover, unaware he has sired a son. Morgoth's spreading darkness will press Maedhros' lover and child into desperate journey for survival. Updated!
1. Nirnaeth Arnoediad

**A/N:** _Here it is, the first chapter to the second and last part of the Chronicles of Maecelofin. (NOTE:Continuation to my story The Chronicles of MaecelofinPart I.)Starts a few years after Maecelofin is born. Alright, WARNING: I have horribly slaughtered the Tolkien timeline of The Silmarilion.I am fully aware of it. And I avidly apologize for it. So just...use imagination And Im not sure about the rate that Elven children grow up. Here Maecelofin is about the same as a four-year-old by human standards. Thanks very much!  
DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Tolkien except the following: Elves-Tinuthiel, Maecelofin, Nimariel, Ciranthos, Celeriel, Gilthalen, King Thrandolthir, Felros, Fenren, Maedhros' horse Turanthir, the horribly stupid idea of a certain pudding (Im sure Elves had some sort of dessert...) annnnd I think thats it. Read/Review! Be nice, though. Enjoy!_

* * *

The Chronicles of Maecelofin-Part II: _The Lost Son_

**Chapter 1**

Nirnaeth Arnoediad

"_Naneth_!"

Ciranthos looked up at the sound. The voice's owner came running in from the hallway. A tiny young Elf, who barely reached Ciranthos' knees, poked into the workshop. The young one had hair like fire and eyes like sapphires, which shone eagerly on his little face. Ciranthos sat back from the piece of wood he had been carving, sawdust and wood curls littering his form. He smiled at the Elf child, who had seen but four summers. The older Elf stood and with a towel wiped his hands of dust and walked over to the child, smiling.

"What do you have there, little one?" he asked, brushing back a strand of golden hair. The little Elf looked up at him urgently.

"A flower for _Naneth_. Where is she?" he asked.

"She and your aunt are working in the gardens," informed Ciranthos. The little Elf smiled and nodded, running off to the front door. Ciranthos chuckled to himself and returned to his work.

The child made his way down the hall and past the kitchen to the front door. He reached up to open it and stepped out into the warm summer afternoon. He saw his mother immediately and ran to her. She was working diligently in the gardens at the front of the house.

"_Naneth_!" said the redhead.

Tinuthiel looked up and smiled, brushing off her hands. "Hello, my son. What do you have there?" she asked, repeating Ciranthos' words. The little Elf held out his hands, holding in them a little white flower.

His name was Maecelofin. He had been born four springs ago, and had been quick to his feet and with his speech.

He was Maedhros's son.

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Tinuthiel, taking the gift, much like the one she had given Maedhros, which he would (unknown to Tinuthiel) bare all the way to his death. Maecelofin grinned as his mother leaned over to kiss his brow. Nimariel smiled and stood up from her work near Tinuthiel, having finished planting the last of the flowers. Brushing her hands free of dirt, she watched her sister and nephew.

She would never forget when her dear sister came to her with uncertain eyes and told her that she carried the child of a Son of Feanor. Nimariel had been shocked, and Tinuthiel told her of the night that she and Maedhros had spent together before he left. Not long after she learned of her pregnancy Tinuthiel had come to live with her sister and brother-in-law, who had gladly and readily taken her in. Now Maecelofin was four years old.

Tinuthiel had not heard from nor seen anything of Maedhros since the day he left. Nor from any of the other Sons of Feanor or King Fingon, for that matter. She did not know how he faired. Now and then the Sindar village received word of the war against Morgoth, and the situation seemed ever more fragile with each report. Not a day passed that Tinuthiel did not worry for Maedhros or glance out at the fields where she had found him injured that night, and hoped for just a moment that she might see him riding towards her-to no avail. And with every day that passed Maecelofin looked more and more like his father. Except his eyes; he had Tinuthiel's eyes.

Now the little one with all the keen senses of a child turned his head as his mother and aunt looked over their garden, Tinuthiel reaching to put the flower behind her ear, and it rested among the gold of her hair. Maecelofin looked out across Maglor's Gap, gazing to the west. The skies were dark, but he saw a figure riding towards them on a great brown horse. He watched in curiosity for a moment, and then looked up at his mother. "_Naneth_," he said, tugging lightly at her dress. Tinuthiel looked down at him.

"What is it, dear?" she asked. Maecelofin pointed out to the rider, and Nimariel and Tinuthiel grew quiet, watching it as it came ever closer. Their eyes narrowed, considering it. They were sure it was an Elf after a moment however, and the rider was alone.

"Maecelofin, dear, go inside for a little while. Make sure your things are cleaned up," said Tinuthiel gently, urging her son to the door. Maecelofin nodded obediently and as he stepped inside and ran to the hallway Nimariel leaned her head in the doorway and called for Ciranthos. The carpenter emerged outside in a few moments, standing by his wife and sister, wiping his hands clean with a cloth. There were still wood shavings about him. Other residents of the village stopped what they were doing and looked as the figure rode up to them, and they recognized the Elf as one of their own: Felros. Tinuthiel almost called Maecelofin back out. No one outside of their village knew of the little one's existence, and she planned to keep it that way. If some saw Maecelofin and Tinuthiel and no husband, they would question them and surely some would see how much Maecelofin resembled the eldest Son of Feanor, for his fiery hair stood out among the normal gold and brown and black of Elvenkind.

Yet the urgency with which Felros rode up and halted his steed let the village know he had important news, and so Tinuthiel did not call her son back out. She knew it had to be news of the war, and she held her breath. The other members of the village crowded about to listen to what Felros had to say.

"Maedhros son of Feanor is calling the armies to him, and the High King Fingon joins him. They mean to attack Morgoth's forces at the heart!" cried Felros. Gasps were heard through the small crowd of wonder and fear. Tinuthiel exhaled tensely, and Nimariel took her arm and hand, giving them a supportive squeeze, but they could say nothing that may indicate Tinuthiel's relationship with Maedhros.

"He is alive…" said Tinuthiel. Her voice was barely a whisper and only Nimariel heard it.

"The Noldor call for any aid-anyone who wishes to fight," continued Felros. A murmur rose from the Sindar Elves. Ciranthos narrowed his eyes, listening. "The armies of Maedhros attack from the east to draw out Morgoth's forces, so that King Fingon may attack from the west."

Dread rose in Tinuthiel and she closed her eyes. Maedhros was setting himself up as bait…Nimariel squeezed her arm again.

"When do they ride?" asked an old, silver-haired Elf named Gilthalen.

Felros answered, "In one week Maedhros's forces will pass through Maglor's Gap for Angband."

Maecelofin did not know what was going on but he could tell that something grave had been said among the adults of the village by the looks on his family's faces when they came back inside. It was almost time for dinner, and Tinuthiel and Nimariel set to the kitchen. Ciranthos sat at the table.

"This will be it," said Nimariel. "This will be the end…either way."

Ciranthos folded his hands, resting his chin on them thoughtfully. "I hope it is…but we cannot be sure."

Tinuthiel's hands were unsteady as she took out the plates from the finely crafted cabinet that Ciranthos had made himself. "I cannot believe that this may be the end…" she said. "I just…" she left the thought to hang in the air, unfinished. Maecelofin came bustling into the room, and he crawled up into his uncle's lap. Ciranthos grinned and ruffled the boy's hair as the child sat on his knees. Maecelofin watched the adults.

"What happened?" he asked. "Who was the rider?"

"It was Felros from down the way," answered Nimariel as she began to cut carrots.

Suddenly there was a crash that made the household jump. A plate had slipped from Tinuthiel's grasp, and after the initial shock she exhaled slowly, a hand to her breast. Nimariel, too, breathed a sigh of relief.

"Goodness, sister…" she said, going to pick up the pieces of the plate. "Are you alright?"

"Yes…yes I'm fine," said Tinuthiel, crouching down to help.

"I have it, just have a seat and calm yourself," Nimariel replied gently, touching her sister's arm. Tinuthiel stood once more and went to sit heavily in a chair next to Ciranthos. She rested her elbows on the table and rubbed her forehead.

Maecelofin watched his mother in concern. What had happened that had gotten her into such stress? He wanted to go crawl into her lap and sit but he could see that she needed to think and so he remained with his uncle. Ciranthos reached over to stroke Tinuthiel's hair soothingly.

"It is alright, my dear. You mustn't worry like that," he said. Tinuthiel sighed, sitting up straight once more.

"What is wrong?" asked Maecelofin, looking up at Ciranthos' bright face. The elder Elf looked down at him.

"It is just news about the war," he said. "Your mother is just worried about it."

Maecelofin drank up the words with his curious mind, which at his age was like a sponge, and looked back at his mother. Tinuthiel offered a smile, and that seemed to satisfy Maecelofin, because a bright grin played upon his face at her and he seemed to forget the ominous worry of all the adults. He looked at Nimariel excitedly.

"What is for dinner?" he asked, eager to know the answer.

Nimariel answered him, "Salads and boring things like that. But we shall have a special treat if you would go fetch me some of those yellow flowers from the backyard gardens…" She looked at him and grinned, and Maecelofin's face brightened. He knew what that meant-Delenor pudding for dessert. It was his favorite snack, made from the flowers that they grew near their tomatoes. He hurriedly climbed down from his uncle's knees and ran out of the kitchen and down the hall to the backyard.

Tinuthiel grinned at Nimariel who winked back. Ciranthos shook his head with a smile. The little Maecelofin was always filled with energy, but he was a very patient and well-behaved lad nonetheless.

But there was another advantage of Nimariel asking Maecelofin to get the flowers. They knew his excitement would keep him busy, and now they could talk a little more.

"Gilthalen and his sons are going to fight…as are Felros and his brother," mused Tinuthiel.

Ciranthos opened his mouth but no sound came out. He thought for a moment before speaking. "I shall go as well."

Nimariel dropped the knife she had been using to using to slice the carrots for the salad and whirled around to look at her husband, wide-eyed. "What?" Tinuthiel leaned forward.

"Ciranthos…"

But the carpenter was firm. "How could I sit here and stand by while others go to fight Morgoth for our safety?" he asked, and Tinuthiel was strongly reminded of the words Maedhros had spoken to her those years ago, and indeed Ciranthos brought the fiery Son of Feanor to mind. "That is why Maedhros left, is it not? Or at least one of the reasons why he fights."

But Nimariel was stricken with dread. "Ciranthos you cannot leave us! Too many have fallen in this war already!"

"Fallen for these lands and those who live within them! If Morgoth succeeds now at this battle then all shall be lost."

Tinuthiel looked down and Nimariel was quiet. Then Maecelofin came running back in clutching a handful of yellow flowers. Nimariel put on a smile and reached down to take them from him. "That's it-wonderful!" she said, and Maecelofin had forgotten of wars and battles and the dread that was looming over his family.

* * *

Felros, his brother, Gilthalen, his two sons, King Thrandolthir, and Ciranthos were the only Elves who dared to join the battle, the 'Crusade of Maedhros' as some whispered it in the Sindar village. Seven warriors. Gilthalen had seen his share of battle, and he was old even among Elves, yet he had a fiery spirit and a temper towards Morgoth that could not be quelled. So it seemed that his two fair sons accompanied him only to protect him. Ciranthos had fought with Gilthalen and the king before, and knew he was in good company. They gathered just outside of the house of Ciranthos, Nimariel, Tinuthiel, and Maecelofin, on the boarders of the village that faced the Gap of Maglor. Gilthalen held his sword aloft, giving an encouraging cry and ready to press to battle.

"Morgoth sleeps not, and for his sake may he not sit lightly on his throne!" he cried. "Onward!" And his horse gave a whinny, sidestepping from its rider's eagerness.

Ciranthos had prepared his horse and now kneeled down before Maecelofin, who stood at his mother's side, watching. "Well, farewell for now, my nephew," said Ciranthos cheerily. He ruffled the boy's hair, and Maecelofin gave a smile. "You take care of your mother and Aunt Nimariel while I am away, alright?"

"I will," said Maecelofin, and Ciranthos smiled down at the bright-eyed boy. He leaned forward and kissed Maecelofin's brow, and the little Elf wrapped his arms around his uncle in a hug. Ciranthos returned it warmly before rising to say farewell to Tinuthiel. Maecelofin could practically feel the tension from his mother and aunt, and he knew that Ciranthos' leaving was not on some errand, but was a very dire matter. "For battle" they had said, and Maecelofin knew from all the talk he had heard in his young life that "battle" was a word that drove fear into the hearts of women and brought out valor in the men.

Tinuthiel embraced Ciranthos, holding him close for many moments. For just over ten years they had known each other, and there was a great love between them. For Ciranthos had always looked to Tinuthiel as a sister and she to him as a brother. When Ciranthos released her he looked her square in the eyes.

"If you speak to him…" started Tinuthiel in a weak voice. But Ciranthos knew what was on her mind and he smiled and nodded.

"I shall tell him to ride back here as swift as the eagles could bare him," he said, and Tinuthiel smiled. Ciranthos gave her a kiss good-bye and said "Take care." Before turning at last to a tearful Nimariel.

Their parting was bitter, and for a long while Nimariel and Ciranthos stood in an embrace, and the pained look on Nimariel's face was something that was most grievous to see. She did not want to let him go, but at last Gilthalen's cry rose again and he clapped Ciranthos on the shoulder as he rode past. He tore off on his hose, his sons following. The others mounted their rides and followed, and Ciranthos kissed Nimariel deeply before breaking away and mounting his horse. "Take care, my love," he said. And as he turned his horse he looked back at Maecelofin with a smile. "I am counting on you. Watch your mother and Aunt."

Maecelofin grinned, feeling quite proud that his uncle had given him such a responsibility, and nodded. "Bye uncle Ciranthos!" he called and waved energetically as his uncle turn and rode off to follow the others. Nimariel was crying softly, and Tinuthiel held her close as they stood and watched the others. Gilthalen's wife came to them and they spoke comfortingly to one another.

"They are fine soldiers! The lot of them!" said the old woman determinedly. "The sooner this war has ended the better it shall be for all the world."

Maecelofin listened, standing by his mother and holding her hand. He always liked Gilthalen's wife, who was an elegant old Elf with silver hair to match her husband's and a lovely, strong, purring sort of voice. She had sharp keen eyes like coals that Maecelofin thought might jump to flames should the Elf, Celeriel, ever need to fend off a verbal attacker.

"It all depends," said Tinuthiel in a soft reply to Celeriel's statement, "on who wins the war."

* * *

Maedhros looked out and saw Thangorodrim. The wind was cold for summer, and sharp. It tossed about his red hair as he set a steely, loathing gaze at the mountains in the distance. Smoke rose from Angband and the skies here were all unnaturally dark. Turanthir shifted beneath him. His armies waited a little ways behind.

Fingon rode up next to him to overlook the lands before them, which would, in a matter of days, become a battleground. The dark-haired king seemed much lighter in spirit than Maedhros. The eldest Son of Feanor was cold and seemingly impassive as usual, but Fingon could read his old friend like a book and know exactly what he thought. Now he sensed the hatred boiling in Maedhros's blood-almost in tribute to the blood he had spilt upon the walls of Thangorodrim. Fingon tuned his gaze to Maedhros and then back to Angband.

"Three days to move my forces to the west," said the king. Maedhros nodded in acknowledgment, and did not remove his gaze from Angband.

"I shall need one and a half to reach my position," he said, and now Fingon nodded.

"The line of messengers will alert you when we are in place and ready," he said. Maedhros surveyed the lands that stretched before them thoughtfully. Fingon gave a grin, watching his friend who looked so ready for this battle.

"Do you love her?" he asked abruptly, and Maedhros now turned his head to look at him, confused at the question.

"Love?"

"Yes, it is a simple question," said Fingon with a small laugh. "Do you love her?"

Maedhros looked ahead of him once more, mind drifting back to Tinuthiel. Four long years since he had seen her or heard anything from her. Not a day passed where he did not miss her, but he had resorted to the best way he knew how to block out painful thoughts: He had numbed himself to them. He had become numb to thoughts of Tinuthiel, and to thoughts of the excessive amount of death that surrounded him and the memory of his suffering at Thangorodrim. He had not spoken of Tinuthiel in ages.

It worked well.

"I cannot afford to love," said Maedhros, denying it. Fingon shook his head knowingly.

"No one can _afford_ to love," he said. "No one can afford to fall to another, to be vulnerable to them. That does not matter."

"I do not have _time_ to love," said Maedhros, raising his eyebrows at his cousin in exasperation. But again Fingon threw the words down, giving a snort.

"You do not need time to love, it has all the time for you."

"Then go back to your wife and children when this is over," said Maedhros, smiling softly at Fingon. The High King returned the smile, but his was one of nostalgia as he thought of his family.

"Aye," he said with a nod. "I shall do that. And you go back to that lovely Sinda of yours."

Maedhros looked back ahead. "I shall go to her when these lands have been made safe for those like her."

Fingon laughed and shook his head, following his cousin's gaze. It was nearly time for them to go prepare their armies for the final run, and his horse gave a snort. "Well _I_ love you, cousin," he said warmly. "If the stars fall on us in this coming battle, I love you."

Maedhros's expression did not change from its calm composure. "I knew that from the moment you cut off my hand to save my life"

"Now are you not glad that I did so?" replied Fingon with a grin, thinking of his cousin's meeting of Tinuthiel.

"I would still love you had you not," said Maedhros honestly. He had truly wanted death on that day. Fingon laughed, a little gravely.

"Yes, I know, cousin. I know."

* * *

The house was quieter without Ciranthos, and Maecelofin missed the sound of the woodwork coming from his workshop down the hall. His mother and Nimariel seemed quite worried, but they tried their best to remain cheerful. After all, what if Maedhros and Fingon succeeded? The darkness would be swept away like dust from the floor, and there would be peace at last in Middle-earth.

Maecelofin, of course, thought of none of this. He knew of Morgoth and the terrible tales, and he heard stories of great battles, but he did not know just how important this battle was to be. Indeed it would be the foundation for many events in his life. But for now he was still young, and he thought only of his uncle's return and how he had promised to take care of his family while he was gone. Maecelofin was on his best behavior, and he helped with whatever he could. He pulled up a chair and helped Nimariel wash the dishes after dinner, rolling up his little sleeves and although he managed to create quite a mess at times, Nimariel could not help but be amused by his whole-hearted efforts. When Tinuthiel was working on their vegetables and flowers he helped, digging with a wooden shovel that Ciranthos had carved for him to play with, and fetching the seeds and water for his mother. He was quite satisfied that he was doing his job well.

It was a rainy day at the village, and the Sindar Elves knew it not but it was three days into the battle of Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Fingon's forces fought valiantly while Maedhros's armies struggled against the treason that had been brought upon them.

Maecelofin sat on the cushioned ledge of a seat by the windows on the side of the house, chin in his hands. He usually enjoyed the rain, but he had bee hoping to go outside and play today. But there was nothing else to be done so he sat at the window and watched the rainfall longingly. His large blue eyes followed the progress of the puddles that swelled with every passing moment. But after two hours of sitting quietly by the window something caught his gaze. The rain had eased a bit and visibility outside had increased. Far off to the northwest the dark skies flashed with an orange glow in the manner of lighting. Maecelofin kept watching and the glowing flashed a few more times. It seemed that it was not going to go away, and he turned and called for his mother and aunt.

"_Naneth_! Aunt Nimariel!"

The sisters came at his call, and he pointed at the window in the direction of the glowing that he saw, and Tinuthiel and Nimariel peered curiously.

"What is that?" asked Maecelofin. Nimariel narrowed her eyes.

"That is the glow of a fire far beyond," she said, sure of her answer. Maecelofin and his guardians watched with bated breath.

"There is battle at Angband," said Tinuthiel, and Maecelofin did not know it but his father was caught up in the chaos that he witnessed from afar.

* * *

Maedhros saw the Balrogs closing in, and the dreaded form of Gothmog loomed over the scattering armies of the Elves. A panic rushed through him when he realized that the Balrogs were heading straight for Fingon and his forces. Maedhros turned his horse, meaning to fly to his cousin's side as he had done for his father long ago.

But then the dragons came. Glaurung spread his mighty wings and swooped in on the flank of Maedhros's army, splitting it as he went. The great fires poured from his mouth and the screams of Elves and Men and Dwarves split the air. Two more dragons attacked, lead by Glaurung. And so Maedhros's forces were shattered. The fires burned around them fiercely and the din of the battle was overwhelming. A hundred sounds reached Maedhros's ears: the clash of metal on metal, battle cries, screams of agony-the screams of the dying, the roars of dragons and Balrogs, and the cries of horses.

But as Maedhros swerved Turanthir around yet another sound reached him: The snarl of a wolf. Maedhros cut down an Orc in his path and turned around in his saddle just in time to see a Warg leap at him. He had no chance to even cry out before the massive tawny animal had slammed into him, bringing both Maedhros and his horse to the ground. A strangled cry was emitted from Turanthir and the Warg landed on top of Maedhros, claws digging into his chest. The wind was knocked from Maedhros and he found himself looking into the snarling face of the Warg, its mouth opened to reveal hideous yellow teeth. Maedhros instinctively raised his right arm to protect his face, and he felt fangs slice through his flesh. The Warg took hold of his arm and he reached for his knife, having dropped his sword in the fall. The snarling beast had just released its clutch on Maedhros's handless arm and its lips writhed back in another growl, Maedhros's blood dripping from its teeth. It lowered its head for another attack, seeking to crunch the Elf's skull in its jaws. But Maedhros had managed to reach his knife and he plunged it into the animal's throat. The Warg gave a choked howl, sputtering up ebony blood, and then it collapsed on top of Maedhros, dead. The battle raged around him and he tried to push the Warg off of him, but he failed. He fell back, the beast still pinning him from the chest down. He cried out for Fingon, praying he could hold off the Balrogs, and looked for his sword but found it not. However, he did see something else on the ground amid the chaos of battle.

The little white flower Tinuthiel had given him.

It lay an arm's length away, near his head. He reached out for it desperately. "Fingon!" he cried, screaming in fear for his cousin. If he twisted his head to look upwards he could see the fiery forms of the demons above the heads of the armies. Their wings flared in the air, and he knew Gothmog had reached Fingon. He reached once again for the flower. It was just barely out of reach. "Fingon!" Blood trickled from his mouth and he coughed. How many days and nights straight had they been fighting?

"Fingon!" he cried again, glancing up to see the Balrogs. He had to get to Fingon! He had to! Panic ran through him, and he kept calling out his cousin's name in desperation. If only he could get up. And the flower was just out of reach… "FINGON!"

**_---_**

_Tinuthiel ran her fingers through his hair and her arms were wrapped around him. He felt her arch her back beneath him and he kissed her again-_

_**---**_

_Fingon splashed him playfully. The two Elf children ran through the creek, laughing with delight while their mothers talked quietly back at the courtyard-_

_**---**_

_Tinuthiel smiled at him, a gleaming gold figure in the snow. She finished braiding the strands of Turanthir's mane-_

The images flashed through his mind as though he were looking at them right in front of his eyes. But just as quickly they had come they were gone and all he saw now was the carnage that surrounded him and the little white flower just out of reach.

"Maedhros!" came a call. Caranthir had reached his brother and he crouched at his side. Seeing that Maedhros was alive he hurriedly began to lean his weight into the dead Warg, trying to push it off of Maedhros. The dark-haired prince pushed with all his might, and Maedhros reached with all of his. Caranthir had just rolled the Warg off of him when he managed to snatch the flower. He clutched the damaged plant in his hand and Caranthir hauled him to his feet, shouting at him over the din.

"Get up!" he commanded, pulling on Maedhros. "Get up, brother, fight!" Maedhros coughed now that the great beast's weight was off of him, his form limply leaning against Caranthir. "Come on, Maedhros, stand up and fight!" Caranthir had recovered Maedhros's sword and he pressed it into his hand. The flower was crumpled against the hilt of the sword as Maedhros grasped it. Caranthir gave him a firm shake and when he was satisfied that Maedhros could stand he plunged back into the battle. Maedhros gripped his sword and the flower and narrowing his eyes he attempted to fight his way to Fingon.

"Retreat!" he called above noise. "FALL BACK!" He gave the command repeatedly as he fought. "Fall back!" His armies were scattered and as the fires of Gothmog and Glaurung blazed about them he knew that this battle was lost. All he could do now was try to get to Fingon.

But in the end he would fail, and Fingon was struck down mercilessly by Gothmog and his other Balrogs, and the Union of Maedhros fell and Morgoth's victory was as complete as the darkness that filled the burning skies.

* * *

The week passed and Maecelofin and his mother and aunt watched as the skies to the northwest grew darker and darker, and a dread filled them. The glow of the fires had lasted for many days, and they watched. Eventually it faded, but then the skies just grew darker in the west. The village was tense.

Their questions were finally answered when a rider appeared in the distance. It was Felros' brother, Fenren. He was battle-worn and he and his horse were smeared with the crimson of Elf, Man, and Dwarf blood and the ebony of Orc, Warg, and dragon blood. Tinuthiel immediately sent Maecelofin inside and he obeyed, disappearing behind the front door just as the rider's form became clearly visible. The other Elves of the village rushed over to meet him as he pulled his horse to a halt. It neighed, its mouth and flanks foaming.

"Everyone must hurry! The others are coming back as fast as they can," he said hurriedly. Tinuthiel and Nimariel listened, and both were filled with the anxiety to know what had become of their loves.

"What has happened?" asked an Elf fearfully.

"The north has fallen!" cried Fenren. "Morgoth has taken it; we must get out of here before his forces reach us! The Sons of Feanor are scattered, and we have no word from them. And the High King of the Noldor, Fingon, is dead."

A panic ran through the village, and Tinuthiel and Nimariel grasped each other's arms. Tinuthiel felt her stomach drop. So none knew if Feanor's sons were alive or dead…

"Please!" cried Nimariel urgently, and there was a desperate fear in her voice as she stepped up to the horse and rider. "Please, where are the others? Is Ciranthos there?"

"The survivors should arrive shortly," said Fenren. Then he contemplated the name. "Ciranthos…" Fenren then remembered and he looked down at Nimariel, meeting her eyes. "Good wife, take heart. Brave Ciranthos was slain."

Nimariel felt as though she had been struck very hard, and she took an unsteady step back. She stared before her, wide-eyed as Fenren rode on deeper into the village, urging everyone to pack their things and leave immediately. When Tinuthiel heard the words of Ciranthos' death she gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth looking at Nimariel. She went to her sister's side. Tears burned in Nimariel's eyes, and she raised her trembling hand to her mouth, muttering the word "no" many times while she shook her head. Tinuthiel took her arm and Nimariel sank to the ground, sobbing. Tinuthiel fell with her and failed to hold back her own tears. She hugged Nimariel's head to her chest, holding her close as they cried. Nimariel felt as though she had been cut open and her heart had shattered. She clutched at Tinuthiel's sleeve. Tears streamed down Tinuthiel's face as she held her sister.

The others returned in segments: Felros came next, and then a sad and slow pace followed old Gilthalen and his two sons. Last of all came King Thrandolthir. They did not rush like Fenren and Felros did, but instead came sadly. All had returned except Ciranthos.

Gilthalen and his sons halted by Nimariel and Tinuthiel's house and Gilthalen's wife ran to them. Nimariel grew sicker still at the sight of Celeriel embracing her husband and knowing she would never again hold hers. She sobbed harder against Tinuthiel. But the King Thrandolthir dismounted his horse and silently approached the weeping sisters. Tinuthiel looked up at him, her vision blurred by her tears. The King looked at them, and his eyes were grave and sad. He gently took Tinuthiel's head in his hands and kissed it, and then he looked for a long moment at Nimariel before doing the same. He brushed back a loose strand of Nimariel's chestnut hair before climbing back onto his bloodstained horse and riding on. The sisters watched him leave, silent save for their crying. Then Tinuthiel held her sister close again and they wept.

* * *

Maecelofin did not understand. Ciranthos was not coming back?

"Can I go visit him?" asked the young Elf.

It had taken the better part of two hours for Tinuthiel and Nimariel to calm themselves upon returning indoors. Nimariel had cried until she was simply too weary to continue, and Tinuthiel feared she would sob until she grew sick. Night had fallen by the time Tinuthiel worked up the strength to explain to her son why they had come inside crying. She had sat next to the little Elf on the edge of his bed and told him: The battle had ended, but Ciranthos could not come back. Why? Because he was gone. What do you mean gone? (How do you explain death to a child?) Because he died. He went away and was in a better place now. He would not have to fight anymore.

"No, we cannot see him," said Tinuthiel softly. Maecelofin was puzzled, and he focused on his feet, which dangled over the edge of his bed.

He asked, "Why not?"

"We cannot go where he went," said Tinuthiel. She wrung a cleaning cloth in her hands. "He is with Mandos now."

Mandos…Maecelofin knew the stories of the Valar. Now he recalled that the souls of the dead went to Mandos. But he thought this was a silly idea because Elves never got sick and they could not die from old age.

"Will we ever see him again?" he now asked in a small voice.

Tinuthiel paused here. She knew it was possible, but only if they, too, died. And she did not want to tell Maecelofin that. So she settled with a lighter truth: "I do not know. Perhaps."

Maecelofin shuffled his feet together. He already missed Ciranthos. But if there was a possibility that he could see his uncle again, how could he be sad?

Then he asked, "Mother, was _Ada_ fighting in that battle?"

Tinuthiel paused once more, her stomach churning. Maecelofin rarely asked questions about his father. She had long ago explained to him why Maedhros was not there, and he took it well. But once in a while he questioned it.

"Yes. He led our forces," she answered gravely.

"Is he coming back? Or did he go with Uncle Ciranthos?"

Tinuthiel opened her mouth and closed it again. Then she found her voice. "I do not know." She drew her son close and kissed the top of his head. Maecelofin snuggled close to his mother. He did not understand this whole concept of "death", but he did know one thing: He did not like it.

Unfortunately, death was to become a very large part of Maecelofin's life.

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_**A/N:** Thats the end of round one. The next phase: Getting the heck out of that village before Orcs come and...nibble on things... Hope you enjoyed! I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can._


	2. Exodus

**A/N:** OMB Its been way too long, I know. > I apologize for the long wait. I have suffered a HUGE writer's block lately and am just emerging. I started this chapter ages ago and finally picked it up again. So here is chapter two of Part two. Hopefully the chapters will come a bit faster. Enjoy! And comment! I love nice comments : ) Oh and I realized that in my last chapter I was consistantly misspelling the name of one of my characters Oo For some unknown reason I continued to type "Thandolthir" instead of "Thrandolhir". It is fixed in this chapter though! -- Falls over

**DISCLAIMER:** Holy cow 7 chapters into a Silmarillion fanfic and I STILL dont own it Snaps fingers Damn.  
**CLAIMER:** However I DO own Maecelofin and all the Thalos Elves. W00t! Go me. No stealing my babies!

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_This day you go forth…  
__Exodus 13:4_

**Chapter 2: ****Exodus**

Maecelofin packed his things quickly. It had been less than a full day since they had received news of Ciranthos' death. Tinuthiel and Nimariel were busy packing what things they knew they could carry. The village was evacuating and heading southeast. In the time since the news had arrived, Tinuthiel wondered if Ciranthos had ever spoken with Maedhros.

What had happened was: Ciranthos had actually seen Maedhros, and tried to call out to the Noldor prince. Ciranthos had desperately wanted to tell Maedhros of his lover and son. But Maedhros had not heard him over the noise of the readying army, and the carpenter had lost the prince in the crowd. Maedhros had never known that his friend was there, and remained unaware that he had a son.

Maecelofin missed his uncle terribly. In his dream that night he had heard Ciranthos working in his shop down the hall. The little Elf had eagerly climbed out of bed to go see his uncle, but he had woken up just as he was about to turn into the doorway.

The red-haired child had his clothes packed, and he was now gathering together his most precious belongings: a soft blanket that he slept with every night and some of his toys. He paused when he picked up a tiny wooden horse that Ciranthos had carved for him. The little Elf examined it now as though he had never seen it before, though it was one of his favorite possessions. He ran his delicate young fingers over the work of art, feeling the smooth wood. He felt the intricate designs of the horse's mane and tail and its face. It was a simple yet beautiful object, and Maecelofin had always treasured it. Carefully, he put it in his bag, against his blanket. He was ready to go now.

* * *

Tinuthiel hurriedly scanned their house for anything else that they might need on their travels. Stress was gripping her; stress about the battle's outcome, the death of her brother-in-law, stress for her family, and stress over the journey that lay ahead and how they would survive. She was satisfied with their packing so far and she made her way to the kitchen to check there. The maiden halted, however, seeing her sister standing there silently. Nimariel had gone to check there as well, and she had paused. Now the brown-haired Sindar Elf stood with tears in her eyes as she ran her hand along the wooden cabinets that Ciranthos had made long ago. The grief for her fallen husband was still fresh and it stung anew now when she looked at the cabinets. Her hand was shaking and her jaw trembled. 

"Nimariel…" said Tinuthiel gently. She slowly went to her sister and put a hand on her shoulder. "We must hurry…"

Nimariel shook her head, loosing her composure. "How can I go on without him, Tinuthiel?" she asked in a frail voice.

Tinuthiel choked back a lump in her throat. "The same way I have gone on without Maedhros," she replied softly. "Everything will be alright, but please, now we must hurry…"

Nimariel took a deep breath to steady herself and nodded. Maecelofin came into the kitchen, dragging his bag of belongings. He no longer had that eager spring to his step. Tinuthiel forced a smile, walking over to him. "There's my Maecelofin," she said softly. Her son looked up at her, his adorable face saddened.

"Are we leaving now?" he asked softly. Tinuthiel kissed his brow.

"In a moment. Come." She picked up her son, taking his bag, and walked outside. Maecelofin did not want to leave. The whole village was frantic, and everyone was packing up to leave as soon as possible. It had been three days since the survivors of Nirnaeth Arnoediad had returned. The sky to the west grew ever darker.

Horses were being hitched to carriages and packed up. The men of the village were bringing as many weapons as they could carry. At the head of it all was King Thrandolhir, seated upon his chestnut mare and surveying everything and occasionally urging for more speed. His eyes constantly shifted to the black clouds that were quickly moving overhead or scanning over the village that had been their home. Soon it would no doubt be leveled and burned by the servants of Morgoth. One by one the houses were being emptied. Some Elves were going to walk, some were going to ride in carriages or on their horses. The Thalos Rivers were going to head south as fast as they could, and then perhaps cross the mountains-Anything they could do to put boundaries between themselves and Morgoth's armies.

"Come on," called Celeriel, beckoning to the trio as the Elves started moving out. She was seated in one of the carriages. Tinuthiel, Nimariel, and Maecelofin went over to her, loading their things into the carriage. Tinuthiel lifted Maecelofin up and in, and he went to take a seat. "Hurry, dears, in you come," Celeriel said. She reached out and took Nimariel's hands, helping her climb in, and then Tinuthiel's. The carriage started moving just as they had seated themselves. Maecelofin miserably nuzzled against his mother, who held him close and stroked his hair. He had said many times that he did not wish to leave, but he tried not to give his mother much trouble. Celeriel had an arm around Nimariel's shoulders and a hand on the younger Elf maiden's arm.

The small remnant of a family each had memories that made them reluctant to leave their little village. Nimariel was distraught leaving the home she and Ciranthos had lived in together-a house that was filled with his final carpentry works. At the thought of Orcs destroying her beloved husband's crafts she felt tears burning in her eyes again and she leaned over and put her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. Celeriel comforted her with strengthening words. Maecelofin was nervous leaving the only home he had ever known. He had never had any desire to leave the village, and he would miss it. He was fearful and awe-inspiringly apprehensive to see the rest of Arda. Tinuthiel's heart reached out as they rolled past her old house….the house in which she and Maedhros had shared brief but potent times of love and intimacy. She let go of the attachments to that house with a sigh and looked down. Maecelofin held onto her arm and watched as the village slowly got smaller and smaller. He had never been outside of it's boundaries, and here he was watching it creep and fade into mere memory. He sat silently, listening to the creak of the carriage wheels as it rode smoothly along the earth. Here and there he would hear the whinny of a horse. But the Elves were silent.

And after an hour the village could no longer be seen.

* * *

Maecelofin was as quiet as the adults were, sensing the tension that was radiating off of them. He again replayed his mother's reasons for leaving. She had told him that the armies of Morgoth were approaching and their home was in danger. Maecelofin had thought that the men would stand and fight to keep them away from their village. But Tinuthiel said that their numbers were too few, and Morgoth's were too great, and so they had to leave. 

The darkness of night approached, made darker by the clouds that kept rolling in. Celeriel had scoffed unpleasantly, saying that this was no ordinary storm; these were the clouds of Morgoth. Maecelofin snuggled closer to Tinuthiel and fear filled him as the clouds crept over the band of fleeing Elves. They had come up so fast….and had bested the Elves in their haste. But the caravan met no trouble as they ventured south. They halted an hour after nightfall, and Maecelofin and his family slowly spilled out of the carriage. Now that he was out from under its canopy, Maecelofin had a vast 380-degree line of vision. He could see the entire open landscape around him. There was nothing but flat, open land to the north, south, and west. To the east, the mountains rose up, climbing high into the night sky. But those looming giants were miles off of the Eldar's path.

The Elves were beginning to make a sad little camp. Slowly but surely small fires flickered to life, meager tents were raised, and stored food was brought out to be cooked. Maecelofin was hungry, but there would be some time before something would be ready. The bright young lad was eager to stretch his legs and so he got permission from Tinuthiel to wander the camp. The little Elf walked, passing by scanty fires and all around him was the disheartening aura of depressed Elves. Since the battle at Angband, the Thalos River Elves had been on edge, nervous like horses that smell wolves nearby. But when the time came to leave their village the discomfort had ebbed into fear and anguish. The Thalos Elves had been forced to flee once, leaving their homes to rot and ruin, and the second time had been no easier to bear. Maecelofin, though he was the youngest Elf in the camp, could feel the weary sadness that hung over his people.

In his mother he sensed exceptional grief, though the red-haired youth was unsure of the precise cause. He turned this thought over in his head as he walked among the Thalos Elves. The deep bond of mother and child allowed Maecelofin a more profuse connection to his mother's feelings. He could tell that she was experiencing some other form of distress. This he knew and nothing more, for his youth would not allow him to understand the love between his mother and his sire, which he had never known. So he did not understand the ache in his mother's heart nor did he understand that her worry was for Maedhros.

Maecelofin paused as he noticed that some of the other Elves were watching him. Skepticism shone in their eyes, and Maecelofin did not know why. When he lifted his head to look back at them they glanced away. Here and there the boy caught a whisper or two that was being passed between them. It confused him, and it made him uncomfortable. Turning away, he heard a song arise from some of the Elves of the camp. It was a slow, mournful song-sweet to the ears, but sad to the heart. It washed over Maecelofin like a breeze, and the young Elf closed his bright blue eyes, listening for a moment.

He did not like it.

These were the people he had known all his life and he had always known them to be cheerful and jovial, seeking peace in wartime. Naturally there was always the air of worry, but as far as a child like Maecelofin knew, there was nothing but uplifting song and dance and smiles. The Elven boy sighed, brushing back a long tendril of crimson hair as he opened his eyes once more. The skies above were dark, and the camp was lit only by the small fires that were seen here and there. Maecelofin walked away from the main body of the camp, unnerved by the eyes that watched him with scrutiny, his little boots traversing the soft grasses below his feet. He sat down at the edge of the camp-not far enough away from adults so as to worry his mother but putting enough distance between himself and the other Elves. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, gazing out into the empty vastness of the night. The boy ached to return home to the village…he wanted to crawl into his bed and draw the blankets around him tightly or venture down the hall into the workshop and crawl into his uncle's lap. He wanted Ciranthos to teach him how to carve things and shape wood, and he wanted to eat Nimariel and Tinuthiel's home-cooked meals….

But all of that was in the past now. And he could not return to it.

"See you anything in the night?" The voice broke Maecelofin from his melancholy reverie, and the little Elf jumped in surprise. Looking up he was even more shocked to see the young King Thrandolhir standing beside him. He had not even heard the lord approach…. Normally the son of Tinuthiel would have bowed his head as he saw the other Elves do, obeying his mother's wishes for him to be polite and respectful. But tonight….he did not much feel like it.

"No…my lord…." He murmured, looking back at the midnight expanse before his eyes. Nothing but plains and mountains in the distance. He shifted slightly, tense from the presence of the lord. He had never spoken to the King before.

Yet now the young ruler sat down beside him as though they had spoken many times before, following Maecelofin's gaze into the pitch of the wilderness. He sat with his feet crossed before him and his knees up, elbows resting on them and hands interlocked. Maecelofin looked at him, not sure what the lord wanted or what he himself was supposed to say. The king looked old…far older than Maecelofin knew he really was. There was a certain shamed weariness about Thrandolhir-again, it was more than one as young as Maecelofin could understand. He was a lord who felt as though he had failed his people in some way. Twice they had been forced to flee under his command, and he worried now for their survival. Presently, the lord pointed out what Maecelofin had already thought of.

"We have not spoken before, you and I," he said. Maecelofin shook his head.

"Mother and Aunt Nimariel seem to like you…," he ventured. The king smiled a bit, his dark brown eyes still searching the panorama.

"They are very strong women," he replied softly. "I have great respect for them both." Maecelofin thought on this, looking down at his tightly-drawn knees. The king spoke again. "I am very sorry for the loss your family has suffered. Ciranthos was another I greatly respected."

At this the red-haired child looked up. "You knew my Uncle?" The king nodded.

"And your father," he replied.

"Mother never speaks of my father…"

Thrandolhir's lips thinned and his brow came together slightly. "You uncle and your father were both very brave, and very noble." He mentioned nothing to the youth of Maedhros' numerous trespasses against Elvenkind. He spoke a simpler truth. Maecelofin nodded and looked at his feet again. After a silent moment he glanced over his shoulder back at the camp. He could not shake the feeling of being watched by the other Elves.

Thrandolhir raised one eyebrow and smoothly turned his head to follow the child's gaze-curious. Maecelofin seemed to sense the King's wonder because he said, "They were watching me. Like I was doing something wrong…"

"You have done naught to earn such looks."

"Then why do they look at me so?"

Thrandolhir sighed, a movement which caused his chest to expand with a slow intake of breath, and then sagged his shoulders. He looked forward again and spoke slowly, as though weighing each word. "I…do not believe I am within right to tell you why, little one."

Maecelofin frowned curiously. "Why?"

"For that answer you should seek your mother," replied Thrandolhir. Maecelofin nodded, recognizing when an adult was not going to elaborate. He mirrored the king's sigh.

For a few silent moments they sat, the elder looking out into the night and the younger staring at his boots. Then Thrandolhir rose to his impressive height, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back a bit. Maecelofin glanced up and watched him as he lowered his arms and offered a smile. "We shall speak again sometime, little one," he said gently. Then he softly placed a hand on the crown of Maecelofin's hair in a gesture of mild fondness, and walked back into the depths of the camp-leaving Maecelofin to watch the silence of the Arda night alone.

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**A/N:** All done. Im workin on chapter 3 so hang tight, my lovelies. 


	3. The Journey South

_**A/N: **Woo new chapter. On a roll. Not particuarly pleased with this one, however. Especially the battle scene. Bleh...oh well. Hope you guys like it more. And I want to thank my wonderful reviewers! Really helps get me going and Im very glad you all like it so here's the next one. Enjoy._

_**DISCLAIMER:** I dont own The Silmarillion or any related plots, characters, or geography. Too bad.  
**CLAIMER:** I DO own the Thalos River Elves, so no takies. _

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_What sudden ill the world await,  
From my dear residence I roam;  
I must deplore the bitter fate,  
To straggle from my native home.  
_George Moses Horton, "The Southern Refugee"

**Chapter 3: The Journey South  
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The following day was even drearier than the first of the Thalos Elves' departure. The skies above remained a thick slate-grey, and midsummer's heat closed a tight fist around the caravan of Eldar. They had spent the night at their chosen camp and swiftly packed the following morning to continue their travels. They left hardly a trace that they had been there at all.

A silence had hung over the Elves. Their numbers, greatly dwindled since the Orc attacks on their village at the River Thalos, moved about quietly. The only speech they cared to make was that of business-asking if everything was packed or a direction to hitch the horses up to the carriages. There was only one perfect word to describe the atmosphere that hung about the company-depression. They were well on their way even before the sun climbed up to the peak of its celestial arch.

Maecelofin's family was once again in one of the carriages. Neither Tinuthiel nor Nimariel had slept well the previous night. They had been far too distressed-Nimariel for grief of her husband's death and Tinuthiel for fear of her lover's possible demise. So now the muggy heat of the day had Tinuthiel lying on her side with her head in her sister's lap, sleeping. Maecelofin knew she was particularly tired on this day when he noticed that she slept with her eyes closed as opposed to open-which is the fashion of Elf kind. Nimariel leaned back against the ribs of the carriage, dozing with an unfocused look on her face. Maecelofin sat between Tinuthiel and Celeriel-silent. The carriage rattled along for endless drawn-out hours.

The Elf child watched his mother and aunt for a while, but they were quite still and since both were fading in and out of a miserable sleep, Maecelofin found them to be as uninteresting as the rest of the silent group. Twelve Eldar were seated within this particular carriage, and none had anything to say. Even Celeriel lacked her usual luster and flare. The silver-haired she-Elf was as quiet as sleeping Tinuthiel.

An hour past noon the caravan halted. Maecelofin was the first to climb out of the covered wagon, dismissing the words of caution from old Celeriel as he slid himself to the ground. Other Elves were climbing out of their own carriages, while those who had walked sat and rested their feet. Quick meals were made, and Maecelofin and his family fed off of sweet breads and swiftly-roasted meats before Lord Thrandolhir called for the journey to continue. After some pleas from Maecelofin, Tinuthiel and Nimariel decided to walk. The young Elf was in a considerably better mood-he felt that if he had to spend another hour in that wagon he would have gone mad. The sun was high in the heavens, and a haze of humidity hung over the mountains. The clouds over them were particularly dark and heavy with the promise of a storm. The air was thick, but the Elves' resilience kept them at an even pace. Maecelofin watched the activity of the traveling company as he walked, his hand grasping Tinuthiel's. The horses' pelts were slick with sweat, but they pressed on according to their masters' wishes. For the most part the group stayed fairly close together for protection. Warriors, who had rested from battle since their days at Thalos, now rode atop their steeds with bows at their backs and swords at their belts. These riders flanked the caravan, keeping more to the outside in order to better defend their fellows in the event of an attack. Maecelofin spotted Thrandolhir riding at the front upon his dapple grey mount. He held himself in the dignified fashion that had been bred into him. Regally straight posture marked him as not only a warrior but a determined leader. A wickedly elegant sword hung sheathed at his side. Maecelofin's stomach churned at the sight, falling into both awe and mild discomfort towards the king. He hoped he would never in his lifetime have to fight such a ruler.

The boy's spirits were greatly lifted nonetheless, and he seemed eager now. The vastness of the empty wilderness around him was mesmerizing. All his life he had been tucked away in his quiet little village by the mountains, and now he was in the wild. Tinuthiel and Nimariel had seen the primordial places of Arda before in their lifetimes, and so it held no wonder for them. They remained silent, and to Maecelofin their gaits seemed slow and dreary.

His blue eyes lapped up every sight around him until after a while even this new environment was growing old. They walked for hours and hours in silence, and his though his feet were beginning to ache he said nothing for fear of being caged inside the carriage once more. He caught the gaze of a dark-haired Elf whom he did not know. The Elf had been watching him, but deterred his gaze once Maecelofin caught on. He shied a bit closer to his mother's side, though Tinuthiel did not seem to notice the uncomfortable attention being channeled towards her son. The white-clad Elf, Maecelofin knew, was lingering under a cloud of sadness, and so the boy did not press the matter with his mother. Perhaps it was nothing and he was imagining things…but then Lord Thrandolhir had not seemed to think so. Maecelofin settled for sticking closer to his mother for the remainder of the day.

They halted once more at dusk; the sky was still cloudy and dark. Fires spat to life once more in scattered spots within the camp. Maecelofin was exhausted. His muscles and feet ached from walking, and he had begun to suffer fits of yawns that began nearly an hour before the caravan finally stopped for the night. Blankets were drawn out and once he had eaten, Maecelofin immediately took to a closed-eye sleep, nestled at his mother's side. Nimariel also went to sleep after eating. The night cooled the humid air considerably, and this was a blessing. Tinuthiel remained awake, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest as she gazed into the orange glow of the little fire before her. The distant sound of conversation drifted softly about the camp as little groups began to converse. Celeriel and her husband and sons were nearby. Gilthalen and his boys had ridden with the soldiers during the day. Horses were being fed and offered drink, as well as wiped down, and they were allowed to graze. A small group of warriors branched away in an attempt to hunt, though they had a feeling they would find little to shoot at on these open lands save possible Orcs.

Tinuthiel glanced about the camp, the sporadic fires glistening jewels in the glum of velvet darkness. The shapes of Elves were silhouetted against them, or lit by a gentle orange glow to their faces. Tinuthiel's blue eyes wandered silently, and she could not help but think back to the camps at Maglor's Gap those years ago-when Maedhros the Tall could be found examining his troops' inventories or grooming his horse, or convening with the High King Fingon over battle plans. Tinuthiel closed her eyes, savoring the ache that accompanied such memories. How she longed to step back into that time, before Maedhros had been lost to her…before her brother Ciranthos had died and before they had been forced to once again flee their home. She longed to step back into Maedhros' arms, and just for a moment close her eyes and breathe deep his defining scent-crisp and fresh like rain and rich like horses.

She was drawn from her reverie by the sound of oddly hushed voices-so soft that only an Elf's ears could have detected it. She opened her eyes and found herself not in Maedhros' arms but rather the target of watchful eyes. A small group of women were glancing at her and whispering to one another as they sat gathered around their fire. But just as had occurred with Maecelofin they glanced away for the most part. Only a few continued to gaze. Tinuthiel felt her stomach tie itself into a knot.

Maecelofin had spent his life in or directly near their house at the village. Tinuthiel had not let him mingle with the rest of the village members, nor had any ever spoken to him. They caught glimpses of the strange child from time to time but mostly Maecelofin's identity was an enigma and a rumor. Now the illegitimate grandson of Feanor was out and about for the entire village to see.

He was a mark of Tinuthiel's sin, or so it seemed to them. He was proof of her infatuation with a Son of Feanor, who was admired by some but reviled by others. Tinuthiel was unwed. And Tinuthiel had bore the child of a Prince of the Noldor.

A dull anger rose into Tinuthiel's chest, and rather than turning away she straightened, calmly meeting the eyes of those who spied upon her. After a moment they went back to their business, and Tinuthiel relaxed some. She looked down at her son, who was sleeping peacefully. An elegant, pale had extended and she gently stroked Maecelofin's fiery hair. The copper locked slipped and laced through Tinuthiel's fingers, and not for the first time she looked at her son and saw her lover. A new ache gripped her heart. Whispers were surrounding Tinuthiel. They were surely targeting her child as well.

It was not Maecelofin's fault he was sired by a Kinslayer.

It was not Maecelofin's fault his parents were unwed.

But Tinuthiel was wise enough to know that Maecelofin would suffer for her choices all the same.

* * *

Hunting had been a failure for the Thalos soldiers. They returned as empty-handed as they had left, but none had expected anything more. Tinuthiel had eventually fallen asleep beside her son and sister, and the camp was up at dawn the next morning as usual. Despite severe discomfort on Tinuthiel's part, Maecelofin begged that they not take the carriage again. So they walked once more. By midday, however, the storms that had hung over the mountains had been swept down to the region. Rain came down in pelting sheets. The summer air was thankfully cooled by this, but Maecelofin found himself ushered once more under the cover of the carriage. The rain had come upon them so quickly that the fractured family had not had time to escape the water before seeking shelter, and they each sat soaked. Celeriel, in a fine display of her maternal nature, worked to dry Maecelofin off with a soft towel, and then saw to Tinuthiel and Nimariel, dabbing the wetness from their hair and wrapping towels about them. She had especially taken a maternal interest in the sisters after Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the news of Ciranthos' death. 

They certainly needed it.

Celeriel had been one who knew of Maecelofin's identity right from the beginning, and indeed had aided Tinuthiel during her pregnancy. She seemed to not give the boy's lineage a second thought. Instead she insisted upon tough-loving Tinuthiel through her depression and her pregnancy. When Tinuthiel fell into despair over the thought that Maedhros might be slain and that she now had to care for his illegitimate child, Celeriel had, through sharp words of logic and level-headedness, urged the younger Elf to be strong and chased away her self-pity.

The storm hovered over the caravan, soaking the earth and the travelers. Well after midday it showed no signs of easing up. Maecelofin was loathe to find himself stuck once more inside in the small quarters. He could do nothing but lay back and listen to the rain pounding on the carriage drapes and the occasional sound of a whinnying horse. But four hours past the midday mark, Maecelofin heard a sound he did not recognize. It was a high-pitched call, hollow and swift. He lifted his head and immediately noticed a few of the other Elves did the same. This sparked his curiosity. Another high-pitched call was sounded, followed by shouts from outside the carriage. Maecelofin climbed to his feet and made towards the opening of the carriage, but Tinuthiel hurriedly drew him back, pulling him close to her as she and the others stared at the drapes that covered the entrance. The carriage stopped.

"Mother, what-"

"Shh…" Tinuthiel quickly hushed her son, and Maecelofin obeyed. The calls came louder now and more numerous. The Elves listened with bated breath. Outside a horse vocalized its dismay, and Elves were shouting orders back and forth. Commotion could be heard and Maecelofin strained to hear what was happening. Tinuthiel's hold on him tightened some and he frowned. He did not know what was happening but he knew it could not be good.

Then someone else in the carriage whispered one word that made Maecelofin understand.

"_Yrch_."

A trill of fear and wonder filled Maecelofin. He looked sharply up at his mother, whose already fair face had gone quite pale. Nimariel had a hold on Celeriel's arm, and she was taking deep slow breaths to keep herself steady. Outside came the sound of metal clashing on metal, and shouts and snarls were heard aplenty. The Elves within the carriage let out gasps and small cries of panic and dismay. Orcs were attacking. Some half-rose out of their seats, but froze when they realized the only way to go was out-towards the battle. It was Celeriel, unsurprisingly, who was the voice of reason and quick-thinking.

The aged Elf ordered them all to huddle in the center of the carriage's floor and to keep away from the entranceway and the sides. They all did so, pressed tightly against one another. Maecelofin found himself in his mother's arms, held tightly and protectively to her breast. He held onto her, large blue eyes flitting from the entrance to the silhouetted shadows that now danced across the coverings of the carriage.

Outside the battle was underway. A band of Orcs had emerged from a small, shallow woodland area that the caravan was passing. Arrows screamed through the air towards the Elves. They were quick to respond, instantly drawing their own bows and stringing arrows to retaliate. Lord Thrandolhir turned his dapple grey and yelled out swift orders that the wagons be drawn together and the soldiers to wall around them. But the organization of the Elves did little to assist them, for the Orcs were all over the place. The foul creatures leapt from trees, swinging crude swords and hammers and cleavers. They came in sporadic directions, attacking from the front and the sides. Barks and snarls denoted the presence of Wargs, and the tawny titans came reeling at the Elves. There were four in total, for this was a small patrol band of Orcs. To the ragged vagabond group of Thalos Elves, however, they were a challenging match.

Thrandolhir cut down an Orc in his path. The thundering beats of horse hooves sounded about, and all around him was just a blur of battle and movement. Fair Elven swords were drawn to match the harsh weapons of the Orcs. Wargs leapt and slid in the slick earth. Mud and blood were spattered everywhere. One Elven horse was drawn into a sharp turn to evade a jumping wolf and its hooves failed it, sliding through the mud and it came crashing down onto its side. The Orcs were all over it, bringing an axe down upon the regal animal's throat and the Elven rider was grasped and viciously attacked. Within moments the already wet earth was painted with the blood of Elves and Orcs. The rain fell in clean sheets, soaking the combatants turning the earth to slop. The Orcs pressed forward towards the carriages but the Elven warriors fought them back.

Maecelofin and his family could only listen to the battle around them, and the Elves inside the carriage clung together and watched the opening in fear. Screams and screeches and commands were heard from outside. Shadows played upon the walls of the wagon. A black Orc arrow pierced the canvas but the Elven women inside were keeping low, and it cluttered to the wooden floor harmlessly. Two more followed it, and the Elves flinched with each attack. Then there was a terrible ripping sound as an Orcish sword tore through the fabric and cut down. Maecelofin gave a cry and some of the other Elves screamed in fright. The line of torn canvas was pulled wider and an Orc cast its foul head in. Maecelofin clung to his mother and the little boy's blue eyes met the red-orange ones of the Orc. Its lips writhed back in a satisfied grin, revealing pointed teeth. It hoisted itself up and began to climb in. The Elves shrank back with cries of help, Tinuthiel nearly crushing Maecelofin to her. But just as the Orc gripped its weapon again it tensed and gave a strangled cry. It fell forward, slumped over the bench with its face to the floor, an Elven arrow piercing its back just between its shoulder blades. A collective sigh of relief was issued and Tinuthiel's hold on Maecelofin eased some. Maecelofin closed his eyes and buried his face into his mother's comforting form.

They waited and listened to the sounds of battle until slowly, they ceased. The hideous Orc cries had faltered and faded, along with the growls of the Wargs. Slowly, the Elves in the carriage straightened, looking around. Glances were sent to the Orc corpse that invaded their mode of transportation. Celeriel boldly stepped over the carcass, peering out of the carriage. After a moment she turned and called to the others, "It is safe now." A collective sigh of relief was issued, and the Elves began rising to their feet. Maecelofin and Tinuthiel's holds on one another loosened and they stood up. Celeriel stepped out of the carriage into the rain, surveying the damage of the battle and seeking her sons and husband, hoping they were safe.

"Stay inside," said Tinuthiel gently. She sat Maecelofin down on the bench as others began to curiously filter out of the wagon. They eyed the dead Orc warily as they stepped lightly over it. Maecelofin did as his mother had instructed, remaining inside as he looked at the Orc.

It was a foul creature. The very stench of it made Maecelofin's muscles tighten. It had long ears-an exaggeration of an Elf's-and splotchy skin that was somewhere between blue and grey. Large orb-like eyes were the murky color of swamp water, and dull with death. Mail, leather, and black metal armor covered it, but these defenses had been no contest for the Elven arrow that protruded from its back. Black blood was smeared about the beast's mouth, staining its pointed, crooked teeth. It made Maecelofin nervous, and he did not know why but when he looked at the Orc he felt a strong sense that he had been wronged, and that he had some personal strife with this Orc. It was the innate loathing all Elves shared for the creatures of Morgoth. Maecelofin would grow to know it well.

And he did not know it then, but he would fight many Orcs in his lifetime.

After a few moments, Gilthalen, husband of Celeriel, climbed in and looked at the Orc. Maecelofin looked up at the impressive figure of the old Elf. With a look of revilement Gilthalen grabbed the carcass and hauled it out of the carriage, dropping it into the mud outside. A tension in Maecelofin's chest eased once the creature was removed from his sight. Gilthalen stepped back out and Tinuthiel and Nimariel climbed back in, followed closely by Celeriel and the other Elves.

"…two dead," Celeriel was saying. "Mark you me, ladies, there will be more before this journey is over." Tinuthiel, wet once more, sat down heavily beside her son, sighing and massaging a spot on her forehead above her eyebrow.

"Valar bless Lord Thrandolhir," said another female Elf as she sat down. We would do best to stay out of this war."

"This war affects us all, Alpheral," said Tinuthiel. The Elf she was addressing straightened, brow furrowing a bit.

"Yes…though it seems _some_ more than others," Alpheral replied stoically. Maecelofin saw a muscle in his mother's jaw jump and there was a flicker of recoil in her eyes.

But before any could speak further the carriage began once more to move.

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**A/N:** _I promise the plot's going to move a little further in the next chapter. And it's all setting up for the rest of the story. . Review and make my day!_

_Yrch - "Orc(s)". Unless I am mistaken...xX_


	4. Ostracized

_((A/N: Well its finally here--Chapter 4. Took me long enough, eh? So sorry for that, folks Oo I had a lapse in LotR-Muse._ _But I just watched FotR and Im back! I hope you all enjoy it. We're getting along now. Oh and read my note at the bottom. Got sort of a poll for you guys haha. Read/review!))  
**Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or the Silmarillion or any related themes, names, characters, etc.**_

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_From the same source I have not taken  
My sorrow- I could not awaken  
My heart to joy at the same tone-  
And all I loved- I loved alone-_

-Edgar Allen Poe, "Alone"

**Chapter 4: Ostracized**

The rain continued for another day and a half, and it made the Elves' travel slow. Twice carriages had been caught in the mud and the caravan had to stop and free the wheels; one of these had been the wagon that Maecelofin and his family stayed in. The torn canvas of the wagon went through makeshift repairs-just enough to keep the rain out. Since the attack on the caravan, Maecelofin did not ask to walk outside again, even on the fifth day when the rain ceased. There was a quiet tension about the group that remained in the carriage. Nimariel spoke little, and Tinuthiel not at all. Maecelofin passed the agonizing time by sleeping against his mother or sitting quietly by the opening of the carriage, gazing out at the plains that slowly crept away from them as they journeyed on.

The caravan made its way slowly through Talath Rhunen, beginning at dawn every morning, pausing for lunch just after midday, and then finally setting up a camp after dusk. While the majority of the lands they traversed were open and bare, they chanced upon a mountain stream on the sixth day. The caravan halted and Lord Thrandolhir issued a day of rest for both horse and Elf. Water was gathered for storage and the horses were allowed to graze and drink. The women gathered clothes and washed them in the mountain water. Some of the soldiers wandered downstream to rinse their blades and clean them.

Nimariel began to cook, and Celeriel aided her. Tinuthiel volunteered to take their clothes to the stream. She was glad to at last have a task to complete, for the long days of being shut up in the carriage were wearing down on all the Elves who rode in them. Now she could at last be out and breathe fresh air. Tinuthiel had not been cleaning long when a group of Elven women came to the stream-the same purpose in their minds as Tinuthiel's. But after a glance they strode a few more paces upstream to work. Tinuthiel's stomach churned as she watched them. Here were women she had lived with for time out of mind by Thalos and at Maglor's Gap. Now they shunned her.

Anger flared in Tinuthiel. They looked at her and remembered the son of Feanor, but they had not loathed Maedhros while he protected their lands near Maglor's Gap. But they seemed to have forgotten the alliance with Feanor's eldest, and of their own Lord Thrandolhir's trust in him. Now they only remembered his attack on the village at Thalos and his crusade into the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Perhaps they even blamed Maedhros for their forced departure from their second home. Tinuthiel would not doubt it. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she turned her gaze back to the shimmering waters before her. She knew there was nothing to be done about this.

Tinuthiel's blue eyes trailed over the wet fabric she held in her hands-one of her son's tunics. It was a clear day with a gentle sun and the clean air of the plains and the mountains was carried on silken breezes. It was a day very much like those when Tinuthiel and Maedhros would go on walks with one another, before they had been so completely ensnared by the events around them. Tinuthiel closed her eyes. Oh how she missed him now…she would have given anything she had to see him again. She would have taken her warrior lover in her arms and would not have cared who in her village saw.

* * *

_Maedhros' dark eyes drifted to Tinuthiel's hands as she weaved the flower stems together, a steely reserve hiding the mild interest and amusement that lurked in the Noldor prince's mind. _

_It was a bright spring day-the weather seemed completely oblivious to the growing threat of Morgoth, and it audaciously flaunted clear blue skies and warm baths of sunlight so very near to the northern realm of Angband. The two Elves walked side-by-side, painted by the dappled light that was peering through the trees. Tinuthiel was doing what she always did on their walks: picking flowers and weaving them into dainty necklaces or crowns, or whatever suited her fancy. As they spoke, Maedhros watched her repeatedly lower to pick a flower, examining its stem beforehand. Each blossom was carefully selected; Tinuthiel made sure they would be suitable for her craft. Presently, the maiden had coaxed Maedhros into telling a story from his childhood, and he spoke of a misadventure that he and Fingon had taken part in._

_"But obviously you found him," Tinuthiel was saying, delicately lacing the stem of a yellow flower into the crown she was making. She paused to smile at the prince beside her, her sapphire eyes gleaming. "Otherwise your people would be boasting a different king these days."_

_Maedhros nodded, brow furrowed as he watched her fingers work. "Yes…" he mused. "I found him--and that stubborn horse of his, held fast in the mud of the riverbank."_

_"Oh dear," said Tinuthiel with a smile, shaking her head as her eyes returned to her task. "I would venture to guess your parents were _quite_ pleased to hear this. Noldor princes getting lost and trapped in the mud…." _

_"It was he who had the foolishness to get stuck, not I," Maedhros pointed out._

_"But you said it was you who chose to cross the creek," countered Tinuthiel, noting an earlier event of her companion's tale. The Noldor prince's frown deepened, and Tinuthiel saw that look on his face that meant he was turning thoughts over in his head, choosing his words with utmost care and precision. _

_He seemed unable to parry this, and so he settled for a simple, "I did," before continuing. "In any case, I pulled him out and together we managed to free his mount as well. And yes, our parents were very cross, though more so over our theft of the horses than us getting our clothes and boots muddy."_

_The pair emerged from the tree line, stepping out into the brightly lit meadow beyond. The birdsongs could still be faintly heard, echoing from the woods out to the lea. Maedhros scanned the area, taking in the peaceful sight. He was poised, as always, standing tall and proud with his fiery hair spilling down his back and his dark eyes keenly aware of everything around him. His left hand rested habitually on the hilt of his sword, while his mangled right forearm was hidden, lost amid the folds of the long sleeves of his robes. More often than not, Tinuthiel noticed, he hid his rent limb from casual sight. Usually the only time his handless forearm was exposed was when he was in battle garb. _

_"I can imagine…" Tinuthiel replied to the end of Maedhros' tale. Her blue eyes shifted from the meadow to him as she smiled. "A troublemaker even in your early days, I see."_

_At this the Noldor prince cracked a rare smile, and even a soft laugh, turning to face her. "I fear so, my lady." Tinuthiel shook her head._

_"It only proves my initial suspicions about you," she teased, brushing back a strand of her golden hair. "You seemed quite the barbarian when you entered your tent that night." She arched one brow to him, grinning. The prince's own brow furrowed once more and his scarred face etched itself into that all-too-familiar frown. The maiden shook her head and smiled in an exasperated way, abruptly reaching out and placing the now-complete crown of flowers upon his noble head. _

_The result was fascinating. The steely prince's emotional vanguard was immediately wiped away as Maedhros blinked, bashfully surprised at this gesture and feeling quite silly with flowers on his head. He hurriedly reached up and removed the crown almost as soon as Tinuthiel had placed it there. Tinuthiel chuckled as she watched him and he shifted, handing the piece of natural art back to her, and she took it. _

* * *

The bittersweet memory passed before Tinuthiel's closed eyes as though she were living it again. The sound of one of the other women upstream broke her from her reverie, for the woman's voice had risen a bit as they conversed. Tinuthiel opened her blue eyes and glanced over before sighing and returning dutifully to her work.

Once she had successfully washed the clothes, Tinuthiel rose to her feet and carried them back to their makeshift campsite, hanging the clothes against the wagon to dry. Celeriel and Nimariel were working over a fire, making a stew from the rations of meat and vegetables they had to work with. The smell was warm and inviting, and it brought a smile to Tinuthiel's face as she glanced around. The smile quickly dissipated into a frown, for her son was not among them.

"Where is Maecelofin?" she asked. Nimariel looked up at her sister.

"Do not fret, he is with Gilthalen," said the brunette.

Celeriel nodded to their right. "Over there." Tinuthiel followed the elder woman's gaze and sure enough, saw old Gilthalen and Maecelofin standing by Gilthalen's great grey warhorse. A sigh of relief escaped Tinuthiel's lips as she watched them. Gilthalen was grinning down at the lad, teaching him how to properly brush a horse. The great steed seemed more than happy to accommodate the brushing, and Maecelofin seemed positively delighted at the interaction with the powerful beast. Tinuthiel was glad he was preoccupied with Gilthalen.

At least he wasn't conscious of the whispers and looks of malcontent that surrounded him.

Celeriel's strong voice drew her attention back. "Sit down, child, you fill me with stress by simply watching you." As always, the easy power to Celeriel's voice left no room for argument or veto. The golden-haired Tinuthiel resigned and sat down between Celeriel and Nimariel, watching blankly as the two worked. Dinner was soon ready and Tinuthiel called Maecelofin over to her. Gilthalen and his sons came also, and the companionable group sat quietly as they ate, small conversation filling in gaps of silence. Only Tinuthiel remained completely tacit. Nimariel and Celeriel noticed this, of course, and called her on it.

"Sister," said Nimariel gently. Tinuthiel's sapphire eyes turned to her sister as Celeriel watched with a hard look. "You are quiet."

"I am sorry," said Tinuthiel softly.

Celeriel intervened. "Your thoughts turn to the Noldor prince, do they not?"

There was a flicker of hesitation that fluttered across Tinuthiel's face. Resenting the fact that she was now on the spot, she gave a small nod. Celeriel's fierce eyes narrowed slightly with thought. "Think of him," instructed the older she-Elf. "Remember him. Love him, if you must. But mourn him not." Tinuthiel gave another nod, and by her side Maecelofin twisted his head to look up at his mother. Concern was written on his face, and curiosity, but before he could ask anything Tinuthiel stroked his hair, quieting him.

But despite Tinuthiel's best efforts, Maecelofin _did_ begin to notice oddities about him as the weeks of traveling progressed. He would notice an adult watch him with a sideways glance, or give a small shake of their head and mutter under their breath, "_Hên en-ernil in-Golodhrim_." The Elven lad knew not why they said this, but he did not speak on it, for he received from their tones that it was something shameful. He grew shy whenever he heard this, and he would turn away from those who said it and move away from the masses. Occasionally he would go to his mother when he heard the whispers and saw the disdainful looks, but more often than not he would withdraw himself even from her, out of shame which was anonymous to him. Yet the little child knew not what he had done to earn such disgrace.

Soon Maecelofin had given up speaking to any of the other Elves save for his mother, aunt, and their close friends (Celeriel and Gilthalen, namely). Yet after some time he would hardly speak to even them. Tinuthiel grew increasingly concerned with the behavior of her son, who was generally a bright and optimistic child, knowing not whether his more timid nature was due to the journey or that he may have indeed begun to realize the opinion of the adults, or perhaps an unfortunate combination of the two. The last of these was most likely. Thus out of protective, motherly instinct she began to make more of an effort to keep Maecelofin involved in activities that kept him close to her and Nimariel. Her son appreciated this whether he realized it or not, and for a time Maecelofin's disposition brightened as he helped his family and close friends with chores and accompanied them on the journey.

But as they drew nearer a mountain pass, Maecelofin would find it difficult to ignore the murmurs and cold looks any further. One day the Elven child was gathering water from a mountain stream as the caravan halted to take rest. A small group of Elves approached, and an old soldier scowled down at the child.

"The spawn of Kinslayers drinks with us," he said disapprovingly, and Maecelofin turned his blue eyes up. "Stand aside! Traitors' blood runs through your veins!" And with a wave of his hand, he shooed Maecelofin away from the stream. Maecelofin quickly scrambled to his feet and moved aside, hurt and confused. The elder Elves frowned upon him before going about their business.

This angered the boy. For the life of him, he did not understand these accusations, and had endured them for far too long. He had never committed any crime that he was aware of—he had never even touched a weapon, and he had never spoken ill of any Elf he knew.

The sun was low in the western sky, painting the sky deep orange and red as Maecelofin ran to his mother. Fair Tinuthiel was seated at their campfire, mending a hole in one of Maecelofin's shirts. She heard her son approach and looked up, frowning when she saw the distress upon his face. She set her work aside as the small child ran to her, throwing his arms around her and crying into her chest.

"What is this, tears? Tears from my little Maecelofin?" asked Tinuthiel softly. She wrapped her arms warmly around her son, stroking his fiery hair. The boy drew back to look up at her, a fierce look in his bright, teary eyes that matched his father's spirit.

"Why does everyone speak to me like this? What did I do, Mother? What did I do wrong?"

Tinuthiel was silent for a moment, grief filling her at her child's words. "Oh, my son…" She put her arms around him once more, holding him to her chest and rocking him gently. "Those are the words of ignorant people. You must pay them no heed, for you have done nothing wrong."

"Then why do they hate me?" asked Maecelofin through his tears. His mother sighed, lacing her fingers through his hair.

"They do not hate you….rest, my little one."

And though his questions were unanswered, his mother's touch soothed Maecelofin, and he felt safe enough to cry in her arms. Tinuthiel rocked him gently, holding him close and comforting him. She began to sing a melancholy song, and as her soft, sweet voice lulled him to sleep, Maecelofin quieted. And from that day, whenever Maecelofin was upset, his mother would sing to him, and he would forever remember the words.

_When you are all alone and lost your way_

_And the night goes on forever_

_Come back to me, my little one_

_And we shall find another day  
_

_When the night is dark and so alone_

_And you feel your strength is lost_

_Come back to me, my little one_

_And we shall find our way back home_

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_((A/N: Hopefully the next chapter will be up sooner than this one was. So anyways, I know I had one or two remarks about the no love scene thing, and I wanted to know if you guys would want on in flashback form? Comment.))_


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